Free Witch Is The New Black by Dakota Cassidy

“The music’s pretty loud. We might be stuck in here for a little while.”
    Panic was beginning to set in. “Then bang harder!”
    Ridge reached up over her and plucked something off the top shelf. “Granola bar to soothe your tattered nerves?”
    She held her body rigid—so rigid, her back ached. “What kind?”
    He held the green wrapper up to the light. “Honey and oats.”
    She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I only like the one with those teeny-tiny chocolate chips.”
    “Can you afford to be fickle at a time like this?”
    Can you move away from me before I ignite? “We need to get out of here.”
    “Are you claustrophobic?”
    “No. Are you?”
    “No. So why so panicked, Bernie?”
    Her sigh was ragged, full of frustration. “Because this…this is inappropriate . The people outside that door are going to talk. I can’t afford to get in any trouble. Did you see that whistle my parole officer has? She’ll blow out my eardrums if she finds out we’re in here alone.”
    He gazed down at her, his eyes, fringed with dark eyelashes, confused. “That’s the second time someone’s used the word inappropriate with me tonight, and if you mean Greta, she’s a softie. I can handle her.”
    “Well, maybe there’s a reason the word inappropriate is bandied about where you’re concerned, and of course she’s a softie. You’re not an ex-con on parole. Also, you’re Ridge Donovan. I’ve noticed you simply have to exist and it does all but make everyone around you swoon-y.” Ridge, Ridge, Ridge .
    “Bernie?”
    “What?”
    He held up a square plastic container with a smile. A delicious, beautiful smile. “Lunchables?”
    Bernie couldn’t help herself, she giggled—and that giggle turned into a belly laugh, one she had to cover her mouth to contain.
    She shook her head. “The crackers are always stale.”
    “Wow. You’re hard to impress. There’s not much else up here but a stray plastic Spork and a lone raisin. How can I win you over with that?”
    Bernie frowned, her hand going to the stiff collar of her shirt. “You’re not supposed to want to win me over.”
    “It’s just an expression. Why so skittish?”
    “Do I have to spell it out for you?”
    “Can you do it in numbers instead? English was my worst subject. All that reading. Romeo and Juliet and Hemingway. Worse, possessives and dangling parti-somethings. I’m much better at adding and subtracting.”
    Pressing her back into the shelving, she tried to make herself as small as possible and avoid giggling. “Okay, obviously I have to spell it out. This looks bad. For me because I’m sure there are rules about being behind closed doors with your boss when you’re on parole; and for you because, well, I’m an ex-con. You don’t want people talking, do you? Fine, upstanding farmer Ridge Donovan caught in close quarters with felonious Bernice Sutton. So in math-speak, one plus one equals two. That means, when someone finds us, they’re going to add up this little scenario and I’m going to end up with a negative balance.”
    He sighed with a roll of his eyes then grinned. “Clearly, math wasn’t your strong suit because that made absolutely no sense. But here’s something I learned today after I talked to Winnie about your parole. It’s not really parole, per se. It’s rehab. Yes, there are rules for your quote-end quote parole—curfews imposed, chores to do here at the rehabilitation house, etcetera. But the rules are catered to your circumstances and conviction.”
    “I robbed a bank. I’m pretty sure that means no snack after dinner for me.”
    “Did you?”
    “Did I what?”
    “Did you really rob a bank?”
    Did she? She didn’t remember the incident. But she’d sure been in a bank vault when the Boston PD had pointed their guns at her and screamed orders for her to get on her knees. That was something she’d never forget for as long as she lived.
    “That’s what I’m told.”
    “What you were told ?”